Nate had trouble making himself go in and sit down behind that big desk. He hadn't actually set foot in this room since the last time he saw Josiah. It'd be under an inch of dust if it weren't for the cleaning lady. Nate had corresponded with the old man during college and his years of footloose wandering, looking forward to Josiah's letters more than he did to his sisters'. Nate hadn't seen Josiah in over ten years, the day he come home to Pilchuck. He had found a place to live, then driven out here.
At the first sight of the house, he had felt odd, disoriented. He'd gotten out of his car, noticing how the hedges had grown wild and the paint peeled. There had even been a couple of broken windows; the sun had glinted off jagged edges. And then Josiah had answered the door, peering nearsightedly at Nate until he heard his voice.
They had taken up right where the last letter left off, their friendship having more to do with the long correspondence than it did with the years that came before. Since Josiah's death Nate had missed the old man, both the friend he had become and the benefactor he had been.
Nate had never wanted to open drawers, read Josiah's letters, see whether he'd paid his bills on time. When he'd thought about the contents of this office, he had been tempted to dump all the paperwork into bags and put them out for the garbage truck. Josiah's life was nobody's business.
So why was he sitting here, tugging open the first desk drawer, which wanted to stick?
He was self-analytical enough to know the answer. Right now, he desperately needed some sense of connection. The house couldn't give it to him; maybe Josiah could.
An hour later, his coffee cold, Nate was about to give up. There wasn't much left here of interest; Ed had gutted Josiah's files of anything worth reading. Nate yanked open the last drawer of the file cabinet, intending to give it no more than a cursory look. It was almost empty. One file, labeled "Personal Correspondence" sagged near the back. Nate lifted out the folder and opened it in front of him on the desk.
The first thing he came to were some letters to the editor of the local newspaper. Reading them, he smiled. The opinions were familiar, the voice almost strong enough to ring out loud.
More letters, to people he'd never heard of. Then, at the back, he found a packet tied in a faded red ribbon. Inside were a number of envelopes, neatly sliced open, addressed in Josiah's slanted writing to an Emma Ratliff.
"Dear Sister," the first letter began. It was dated nearly twenty-five years before. Nate skimmed down the page and found nothing pertinent. He almost didn't pick up the second one, feeling as though he was violating Josiah's privacy. But a deep need made him persist—and then he saw his own name.
"Have I mentioned the kid who hangs around here?" Josiah said. "He's a nuisance, but I feel sorry for him. His father's a drunk, his mother deserted him. Used to just stand out there and stare at the house until I asked him one day what he wanted. I think he's just looking for a refuge. Not surprising, since he often has bruises. Anyway, the boy claims to be interested in the history of the house. You know I can't resist talking about it. Once I'd invited him in a couple of times, what could I do? He's nice enough, I guess. I just wish he didn't come quite so often. I'd better find a use for him. Pruning roses?"
Nate laid the letter down with a steady hand. Something inside him seemed to have frozen. Had Josiah really seen him that way? A nuisance?
Driven by the need to know, he picked up the next letter, kept reading. The packet covered a span of seven years. Josiah had written three or four times a year in some detail. In most of the letters Nate wasn't mentioned; apparently he hadn't been a big enough part of Josiah's life to justify comment. Martha's illness was here, her death, problems at the mill, comments on world affairs, Josiah's own health.
Nate came to his name again; a paragraph talked about how well he'd trimmed the hedges. "Useful after all," Josiah commented.
Six months later. "Haven't seen any bruises on the boy in a while. Too big for his father to tackle, I suppose." Josiah mentioned Ed more often, sometimes with irritation, but overall with a kind of toleration that cut painfully through Nate's numbness. "He's an Irving, after all," Josiah admitted after one tirade. "He's my heir, and I know he'll do right."
Right? Nate's hand tightened, crumpling the thin sheet of paper.
By the end he felt sick and his eyes burned. Clearly Josiah had become fond of him, and he had mentioned Nate's departure for college with pride. "I take responsibility for it," he had said. "God knows where he came by them, but the boy has brains. He wouldn't have used them if it weren't for me, however. I have to admit the place seems almost lonely without him dropping by."
The letters ended with a last one that inquired anxiously about Emma's health. Apparently she had then died and the whole batch were returned to Josiah. Why Ed hadn't taken them, Nate couldn't imagine. Maybe he hadn't gotten beyond the letters to the editor.
Almost lonely. Nate shoved the seven years’ worth of correspondence back into the packet and retied the ribbon. His teeth clenched until his jaw ached and he wanted to throw up.
Almost lonely...but not quite. Neither Nate's presence nor his absence had really impinged on Josiah's life. He'd liked Nate, maybe even been proud of him. But he hadn't loved him like a son; Nate had only needed to see him that way.
Humiliated and angry, he turned the lights off and left Josiah's office. He had found the man he sought, Josiah had answered his questions. Now he knew how completely he'd deceived himself. He had always believed that even if his parents hadn't loved him, one person had. Tonight he had discovered differently.
At last he made himself face the deeper hurt. How could he expect Abigail to feel something for him that nobody else ever had?
*****
Nate woke up that next morning and rolled over to stare at the ceiling, his mood black even before he remembered why.
Thank God he didn't have to be anywhere today. He didn't think he could face Appleton, or even John. He didn't know what else to do with himself either, though. How could he? He didn't know who the hell he was anymore.
He didn't call Abigail Saturday or Sunday. Too restless to stare at walls, Nate spent the weekend working in the garden, cutting out old wood on the once-flowering roses that would now form hips. He pruned hedges, though not without wry awareness that he was still being "useful"—and the Irving House was no more his than it had been back then, so long ago.
Sunday night he had a beer and watched a preseason NFL game. When he clicked it off at the end, and the silence enveloped him, Nate realized he was thinking about work tomorrow pretty much as he did every evening.
He searched himself for anger or the humiliation that hurt even worse, and found neither. To his surprise, he realized he was ready to accept the truth. It had been natural for him as a child to cling to the belief that somebody loved him, as though only that love could give him worth. Now? Now he had confidence in who he was, even if he'd let it be shaken. He was a damned good architect, a decent sailor, a man others seemed to like. He couldn't have asked for a better friend and business partner than John, or a life that suited him better.
With one exception. He needed Abigail in it. He needed, for the first time in his life, to have somebody who loved him back. Had he jeopardized that by expecting Abigail to make up for everything he had missed?
Was she right? Had he grabbed her too tightly, afraid of losing the most precious thing that he'd ever had?
He wandered into the kitchen for another beer. Leaning against the counter, he popped the top and took a long swallow. Okay. How was he going to quiet her fears? How could he show her that he respected her abilities? How could he convince Abigail that he trusted her to make decisions that would affect both their lives?
How could he separate love from need?
*****
Abigail came to work Monday morning with purple bruises under her eyes and an ache that clutched at her heart whenever she let herself think of Nate, or even the future.
"Morning, Meg," she tol
d her partner, hoping against hope that she wouldn't comment on her appearance. "Any messages?"
"Are you okay?" The phone chose just then to ring, and Meg reached for it. "McLeod and James, how may I help you?"
Abigail flipped a hand and headed thankfully toward her office.
Meg covered the receiver with one hand and hissed, "Nate's in your office, Abigail."
'Here?" At last. Her pulse accelerated. The weekend without a call from him had been torment. She had wanted time, but not to regret. In the last two days, Abigail had begun to see how her reaction must have looked to Nate. In a moment of passion and deep emotion he had proposed, only to discover the woman he loved was not delighted, but horrified. How must he have felt?
How did he feel? Abigail hovered on the threshold to her office, afraid to go in. The truth was, she had no idea what to expect—or what she wanted. What if he proposed again, said he'd given her time to think it over? Was she any more confident of her answer than she had been Friday night? And yet, could she blame him if he had decided not to wait for an answer? How would she feel if she had asked him to marry her, and he had hesitated, claiming a need to think it over?
The unlatched door opened silently under her hand, and she had a moment to observe him. Nate sat at her round table flipping through the pages of a newspaper so quickly it was obvious his interest was idle at best.
In profile his face was relaxed, so classically handsome she could almost forget how rakish his smile was, how magnetic the gleam in those gray eyes was. He grimaced at something he saw in the local section, and Abigail watched that groove in his cheek deepen.
He folded the paper and turned his head, catching her flat-footed. Their eyes met, his opaque, and she thought suddenly that he looked older. In the gray light coming in the window she was more aware of the fan of lines beside his eyes, the furrows between his brows. She remembered the sulky, beautiful teenage boy she had imagined, and could no longer see him.
He stood up slowly and nodded. "Abigail."
"Nate, I...I'm glad to see you."
"Are you?" Question—or sarcasm?
She lifted her chin slightly. "I hoped you'd call."
He ignored that. "I'm here today about business."
Her heart sank sickeningly, and she echoed, "Business?"
"I have a proposition for you." He didn't make a move toward her. "Do you remember the development I told you about? We were surprised this morning by a call from the city. They've decided to give permits that were promised before the sewer moratorium. We figure we'd better go ahead before they change their mind again, so we'll break ground for the first couple of houses by next week. We're planning forty, and we have an option on some neighboring property for expansion down the road. Let me show you the layout."
Abigail made herself walk over to the table, where he spread a map showing how the acreage had been carved up. As he traced with a finger where roads would run and what would be pasture, she saw only his hands, one braced on the table, so large they shouldn't have been as gentle as she knew them to be.
As though from a distance she heard him say, "John and I talked it over this morning, and we want you to sell the houses for us."
She should be thrilled; this was the kind of opportunity she dreamed about. So why did she feel...numb?
Abigail lifted her gaze to meet his steadily. "Why?" she asked.
His face was utterly closed to her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean...." She bit her lip. How could she ask if he was trying to buy her? But she had to know. So she did it bluntly. "Is this a way of keeping me dependent on you?"
A muscle jumped in his cheek and he straightened to face her, letting the edges of the map roll. His voice was deep and rough. "You weren't kidding Friday night, were you?"
She shook inside, but outwardly stayed composed. "I need to know why you're giving me this chance. Why today?"
"Would you believe me if I said it's because you're good at your job?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he took a folder out of his briefcase and tossed it on top of the map, then snapped his briefcase shut. "No strings attached," he said with harsh restraint. "Does that make any difference?"
"Nate, you know I can't turn this down."
"You're a small agency. Maybe it's too big a challenge for you."
She was mad enough to snap, "I'll sell the damned houses for you," but not so mad that she didn't realize she'd just been expertly manipulated.
She saw a flicker in his eyes, and then he nodded. "Call if you have questions." He grabbed his briefcase and was gone.
Abigail sagged into a chair and stared at the manila folder. Well, so much for that. No more roses or pretty books or pewter knights. He'd stepped up the scale of his giving. The question was why.
She was afraid of the answer. If he was trying to buy her, she had to face the fact that her worst fears were right. And if she was wrong.... Abigail pressed her knuckles to her mouth and took a shuddering breath. If she was wrong, she had just wounded the man she loved. Unforgivably.
CHAPTER 11
Meg put it with her usual succinctness. "For heaven’s sake, Abby, what's your problem?"
"I don't know." Abigail jumped up from her seat and began to pace around the tight confines of her partner's office. "I must sound horribly ungrateful."
"You do," Meg agreed. "Though I'm not sure you should be 'grateful.' We'll do a hell of a job selling for him. This is the kind of opportunity we've been begging for, and that means we'll commit more of ourselves to it. What I would expect is you'd be happy, at least, to get the chance."
Abigail stopped and closed her eyes. "I am. Of course I am. I know as well as you do how important it is to us. It's just...." She hesitated for the millionth time. "Why now? Why didn't he hint they were considering us? No, it's just out of the blue, like he's saying 'See what I can do for you?' I feel...tainted."
There was a moment's pause, and then Meg said, "You want to know what I think?"
Abigail swung to face her partner, still comfortably sitting behind her desk. "Yes, of course!"
"I think you're too damned independent." Meg softened her voice. "I know why you are, but you're carrying it to an extreme. The guy buys you a few pretty things, you think he's burying you in them. Lord, I wish Frank'd bury me in a few! Abby, you're overreacting. Did it ever occur to you that Nate's seen you in action at the Irving House? I doubt he'd hand you a plum like this just because he has the hots for you. He's taking a big risk here, Abby. He must trust you."
Abigail stared at her partner. What if Meg was right? A wave of anguish washed over Abigail and she bit her lip. "He may trust me," she whispered, "but I don't think he'll ever speak to me again."
The next week seemed to prove her right. Nate had cast her loose with a vengeance. Every time she called his office with a question, she got his partner instead. John Mercer was nice enough, though every time they talked, Abigail wondered how much he knew about her. Was he aware of her and Nate's relationship? Had he really wanted the listings to go to McLeod & James, or had he agreed reluctantly under pressure from Nate?
Abigail carried Meg's words with her like a talisman. Had she misjudged Nate so terribly? What if he'd intended all along to offer her this chance? Or—worse yet—what if he had made this offer in response to her misgivings, as a way of proving his respect for her abilities?
And yet.... She always came back to her fears. What if he had figured this would show her, big time, what he could give her?
As the days passed, she realized how empty her life was without him. There was Kate, of course, but after her daughter went to bed, Abigail would wash the dishes and then wonder what to do. She might read, but her mind wouldn't be on it; turn the TV on, but she hardly ever finished a program. She wanted to hear one particular voice so badly, she would stare at the phone with the hunger a starving man feels for a loaf of bread. She wanted Nate desperately—so desperately she didn't dare call. She wondered if she had lost herself again. Need thi
s bone-deep couldn't be healthy. She couldn't let herself depend on anyone again.
But the work Nate had given her was absorbing. She visited the site and discovered that the streets had been laid out, the curbs in place, though the roads themselves were still dirt. There was access from two directions and the several roads looped in gentle curves up a slope steep enough to provide breathtaking views, but not so steep as to make most of the acreage unusable.
At the bottom, where it was most level, was the raw land that would be community pasture, with a huge stable and indoor and outdoor arenas. The first two houses built were to be at opposite extremes of the site: one near the main entrance, to serve as a model house, the other at the top of the hill to take advantage of the spectacular view east to the white-topped Cascade Mountains.
In company with John Mercer, a man as large and impressive in a different way as Ed Phillips, Abigail familiarized herself with boundary markers and the pros and cons of different pieces of land.
"This one wouldn't be great for a horse," she said thoughtfully one day, as they inspected the bulldozed site of the house that would crown the ridge.
"No, but the owner could pasture one down below. Tell you the truth, though, our projections are that buyers of only about one house in three will be interested in horses."
"Even in a development geared toward them?"
"Yep." John shoved beefy hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. "I've seen similar places. Nate and I talked to owners in some of them. You'd be surprised. Some of the people think they'll get a horse someday and never do. Some of 'em just like what this kind of community does for their property value. We expect to attract people who want a view and enough acreage to guarantee privacy. So I don't anticipate that you'll have trouble selling the steeper lots."
All Through The House Page 15
